


To Be Taken With a Grain of Salt

by MadameGiry25



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Buried Alive, Gen, Horror, London, Original Character(s), References to Dickens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameGiry25/pseuds/MadameGiry25
Summary: In which a tramp upon London Bridge must assist in raising the dead.





	

**My Lord, I knew I was a doomed man when the Foreman of my Jury came into the box. My Lord, I knew he would never let me off because, before I was taken, he somehow got to my bedside in the night, woke me, and put a rope round my neck.**

**\- Charles Dickens, "To Be Taken With a Grain of Salt," All the Year Round**

Truly, one could say that the very idea of spying a specter or other such spook atop the London Bridge was absolutely ludicrous. For one, the great fog that was wont to envelop the stones made it impossible to differentiate between the Otherworld and the present day; one was as likely to spy a forlorn lover as yet living in despair as to see the ghost of his truly despairing brother from decades past with no difference between the two, so great was the fog upon the Bridge.

For another, it's been my experience the average ghost, both living and dead, knows better than to linger, lest he be accosted by one who means well, but who does not understand that the Bridge is meant to be the land of the living and otherwise dead.

Yet, it is the soupy mire beneath the Bridge that I, a humble sweep, observed upon this past All Hallow's Eve. If I were to sit upon the cobbles and dangle my feet o'er the edge of the precariously crumbling side, I might look over the city, figures milling about their business through the miasmic air, and imagine I had view of their daily lives. Indeed, this has been my custom for many months; to sit and stretch my wearied legs above the waters below and to merely observe. Where my dear departed wife would insist this is a waste of my precious time that might have otherwise been spent feeding our considerable family, I can at least now dream of informing her that this habit of mine could truly save a life.

It was the custom of a certain fine-looking carriage to travel eastward across the Bridge late in the evening towards the graveyard at the other end of the city. I say it was fine, and it truly was, with burnished wood and curtained windows hiding the inhabitant from the prying eyes of those of us less than worthy to see his face. The crest upon the door was not familiar to me as anything but a symbol belonging to this man who passed me at least thrice weekly, potentially even more frequently.

I found considerable pleasure in looking upon the horses pulling this particular trap; so sleek were they that even in the gaslight of the darkening afternoon, they seemed to shine with untold luminescence. The man who drove them rarely changed. He sat erect in his carriage as though he had a stick up his arse. In fact, so uncomfortable did he look, I am loathe to admit I often chuckled in spite of his discomfort as he kept his eyes straight ahead.

This particular night, the boys who also habitually climbed the bridge to watch would throw the occasional spot of trash at the carriage, and once, their target was struck soundly as some of the moldy fruit made contact with his face. Saying boys will invariably be boys, it did not escape any of our notice that the carriage had been replaced with a long black hearse. Yet, it was obviously the same carriageman, the same horses who pulled it, and I do believe the seasonal sight was too much for their eagerness and they pulled away from their taunts and moved to actual blows with gone-off produce.

Their laughter was not enough to break the extreme concentration of the driver, but 'twas enough to cause the man who resided inside within to bark something at him that caused him to stop the vehicle and climb down to open the door. For myself, I found it rather foolhardy to engage with the children, and perhaps even moreso upon seeing the shriveled old man who emerged with his gilded cane in a fit of shrunken rage.

It was quite surprising to realize that, quite out of character for the finely efficient driver, he had stopped the hearse much closer to the edge of the bridge than he should have done. And in any other quarters, he might have gotten away with it, but had not the time to adjust. Of course, the boys fled at the sight of the fine gentleman dressed in his lace and finery, laughing as they did.

Perhaps it was the roughness, carelessness of the children. Perhaps it was a fault in the ancient locking mechanism upon the doors of the hearse. Perhaps it was just plain poor luck.

Whatever the cause, as the boys ran, one of them managed to bump against the hearse, stopped crooked against the side of the bridge as it was. The lock that should have prevented such accidents sprang open and I could spy what appeared to be a coffin within. But of course it was a coffin; what else but a shrunken old man could one expect to find within a hearse?

The boys who had remained behind to taunt the old man and his driver, appearing both panicked and delighted with this new macabre development doubled their efforts and decided to scarper before the gentlemen do them any real harm. But not before bumping against the hearse, this time in perhaps not so accidental a fashion as their companions.

And this would be the downfall of the coffin within, that appeared to almost hop from within the hearse to land on the edge of the bridge, dangling precariously over the waters below. And, truly upon my word, the elderly gentlemen and his driver exchanged a meaningful look between them before the driver approached the long wooden box with some great hesitation. As I watched, I swore that I heard a cry from within the box, although that was naturally impossible. I assumed it had been a figment of my imagination as the man threw his shoulder against the coffin, sending it over the bridge and down to whatever laid below.

Of course, I had no idea what to make of the scene for myself, and simply remained upon my perch, having been given a truly unparalleled view of the event. The two men stared at each other and then at me, as though they hadn't noticed me before. The driver strode towards me without a word, pushed a heavy coin against my palm and stared at me before rasping out a command, telling me he knew I wouldn't say a word. I simply shrugged, pocketed the coin, and pulled my hat over my eyes as the man helped his gentleman companion back into the hearse and drove off.

The coffin bobbed in the water below, the current causing it to rest in the muddy banks. I stared at the box in silence for a long time before taking a swig from the bottle between my knees and leaning back once again.

* * *

This night of All Hallow's Eve was cold, perhaps even unseasonably so, though it was not something that I noticed when the drink had settled into my bones and gave me some relief from the chill.

It had been hours since the strange men had pitched over the coffin, yet sleep had o'ertaken me enough to cause me to lean back in my seat and enjoy the buzzing in my ears, falling asleep in the wind. Therefore, it was something irksome to hear the strange man coming towards me, shouting something of death, "Hurry, man," and the appearance of a doctor. I must confess, I was not listening particularly closely to his ravings until he took me by the shoulders and shook me in great anger.

"Listen to me, man," said he, speaking something else that slurred in my brain. "Did you see them? I know they came this way."

I shrugged, not really comprehending any of his words as it was. "I can't say, sir. I may have this coin, and I may not, for the man told me that I wasn't to say he was here, and I must listen to his worshipfulness, mustn't I?"

The frustration at that moment seemed to even penetrate the muddleheadedness I experienced, and he shook me again. "So you did see them? Which way did they go?"

"Can't as say you must go far if it's the treasure you speak," said I, searching my brain for all the necessary words to speak them. For even I could barely recall the events of what seemed like days ago, so thick was I.

He stared at me and then at the coin I still clutched in my hand as I held it over the water and twisted it around in my fingers for a moment.

"Was he dead?" I asked, something about a shout occurring to me as I peered over the bridge to where I could still see the coffin below. "I would say that he was, but something else told me that he wasn't."

The man followed my eyes down the bank to where the coffin was already covered in muck and barely visible from our particular perch. He let out a cry of horror and pulled me to my feet as he almost seemed convinced that he would jump over the edge of the bridge but then suddenly thought better of the idea and we ran-staggered-to the river banks below.

* * *

He demanded that I help him to pull the lid from the coffin as I collapsed to the ground next to him, my body yet still incredibly heavy. I scoffed at him, telling him there was no reason to pull a corpse from the mire, to let the poor man rest in peace. And yet it was a thumping from within the coffin that gave me pause long enough for him to roar at me, thrusting a crowbar into my hands and telling me to hurry.

Hands slowly making their way from empty bottle to crowbar, he swore impatiently at me and began banging away with a hammer at the side, apparently trying to loosen the nails with little success. Momentarily, he tossed it aside and took the crowbar from me, inserted it between the boards of the box and took my hands with such force I feared he might break them before instructing me to push.

Together, we managed to begin to splinter the soggy pieces of wood that had shrunken in the moisture. Indeed, the last few blows to get the coffin open were struck by the pair of us, with hammer and crowbar alike, in a wild frenzy to resurrect the dead.

Imagine my astonishment when the lid was finally carved back enough to reveal the man below. Pale and wan though he appeared, his shirt removed to bare his shivering chest and his eyes glazed with something that looked like even more drink, he was very much alive.

With what remaining strength we had, we thrust our hands under his arms to pull him free and land him on the muck-covered banks below. Once he laid there before us, I could only sit and stare as my newfound friend leaned his ear down to the man's chest and put an ungloved hand before his nose and mouth before sighing in relief and slumping down. Then, he removed his fine cape and laid it over the other man, urging him to stay still and not move.

As all this was happening, my poor spun head still stared in shock, picking away at a splinter of wood that had lodged itself between my finger and the nail on my thumb at some point in the frenzied pounding a few moments before. I sat back on my haunches as the man on the ground coughed and gasped in air, his friend urging him to breathe, breathe, breathe.

And as it was, I could see no further need for my own services, having only just discovered I'd dropping the schilling that the fine gentleman's driver had given me previously, and feeling my temper rising because of it. I tossed the bottle away, emptier than I'd even thought, and tried to stagger to my feet.

Much of this tale, even now, remains blurred in my mind, so cold and so drunk had I been. But one thing that has stuck in my mind is the frantic gentleman abandoning the side of his friend just long enough to press a five-pound note into my hand and murmur his thanks in my ear before looking down at the bottle that had rolled to the side of the rive and was now floating away. Without another word, he gave me another glance and returned to the side of his friend.

* * *

Ai, but the headache that I had suffered upon returning to my bed in the alleyway caused me to sleep for what must have felt like days, but was in actuality, a mere 12 hours.

I had pulled myself to my feet and made my way out of my hole in the wall before I discovered the note still in my pocket and stared at it. I had made my way to the street, and was nearly knocked down by a finer man than I who seemed in a great hurry.

"Halloa, what's this?"

His voice was nearly unrecognizable when it carried no note of panic, but it was enough to cause me to look up as I swayed slightly and righted myself.

The fine gentleman walked down the street before me, his resurrected friend now fully dressed, though still a bit worse for wear, and at his elbow. They stopped beneath the "Baker Street" signage that marked my personal living quarters a few steps away to look in astonishment.

The taller gentleman extended his hat towards me with a word of thanks; so astonished was I that he even recalled my face, I tipped my own excuse for a cap towards him in return without a word. Having exchanged pleasantries, the two gentlemen continued on their way. I stood watching them go, the five-pound note clutched in one hand, a splinter from the coffin in the other.

And to this day, whene'er I sit upon London Bridge, I tell my tale to those who will sit and listen, of the day that I assisted Mr. Sherlock Holmes in raising the dead on All Hallow's Eve.


End file.
